


Anomalous

by kimbleefucker (hihowareya)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihowareya/pseuds/kimbleefucker
Summary: He hated to admit to himself that he was overcome with unique dysphoria, his reflection dancing on the precipice of unfamiliarity.





	Anomalous

**Author's Note:**

> I just think about this a lot.

The order of release came suddenly, unexpectedly. Though he had no reason to believe he ever would see the light of day again, Solf J. Kimblee was now officially a free man and well on his way to experiencing air outside of the stagnant prison cell.

Permission granted for an officer to retrieve some of his belongings that had been moved to a personal storage after his arrest, he observed the few things that were retrieved. Suit, wallet, jacket, shoes, everything he would need. The officer was kind enough to fetch him a razor on request after he uncomfortably rubbed his hands over the stubble on his jaw. 

Showering for real felt nice, being able to move his arms from their previous locked position felt like he was experiencing new limbs for the first time. The water stung the raw rings around his wrist, and he flexed his hands reflexively. It would take some getting used to again.

The razor made a loud clink against the sink as he tapped off the last of the risidual white of the shaving cream; it felt almost overstimulating. He carefully wiped any remaining off his face with the towel he'd been tossed unceremoniously, looking in the mirror then looked away back at the clothes still remaining on the hanger, dress shirt, vest and suit jacket ironed meticulously. He almost reached for it when he chanced a second glance at his reflection. 

He hated to admit to himself that he was overcome with unique dysphoria, his reflection dancing on the precipice of unfamiliarity. 

Kimblee was, if nothing else, a man of careful thought and delicate process. He did nothing with uncertainty. 

But there was an underlying feeling of trepidation he felt as his slender hand gingerly let cool fingers touch his face. 

It wasn't a stranger, but it wasn't a familiar either. His high arched eyebrows threatened to knit into an expression of concern when he made eye contact with his reflection. Though he never considered himself particularly attractive (his appearance wasn't at all representative of his own preference), he didn't consider himself especially ugly either. Though many would argue he was still more closely associated with definitions of handsome, he felt what could only be described as confusion, then a slow crawl to acceptance. 

He'd always been plagued with small details that betrayed his age. Dark circles under perpetually half lidded eyes, or a distinctly frail composition. These features before masked by the powerful youth of his 20s now slithered to forefront, forcing him to accept the reality of his 30s. The effects of prison however compounded, and he felt like a visitor on his own body. 

The curved tip of his nail traced the high cheekbone with great reverence, but descended into the near gaunt frame of his face slowly, before reaching up to push a lock of black hard behind his ear. He almost winced at the 3 or 4 gray hairs at his hairline, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to pull them out. He was thankful only that his hairline hadn't suffered in his situation; he silently thanked his genetics. 

It felt like he stared an hour for every year sentenced to his body, the self restraint needed to finally pull away from the mirror was more than any he'd used in Ishval.

But of course his sentiment was not limited to only viewing himself in the looking glass. Pulling his arms through the sleeves felt strange, though it was distinctly his he felt it belonged to someone else.

While he wasn't at all attached to his physique in Ishval, but it was what he had become accustomed to. The atrophy wracking his body now made the thin cotton of his dress shirt feel as though it was woven of lead, delicate suit new shackles made of silky white instead of rough wooden stockade. 

Nothing seemed to fit like it used to. It would take some work to regain the semblance of normalcy he associated with himself, to feel svelt and and lithe instead of desolate and... decayed. The concave of his stomach hidden by his layers, but still felt.

He ran his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to pick at every split end. It retained its thickness and soft texture, but it was in desperate need of some care. He tied it back carefully, his cowlick strands falling forward.

He was pulled from his self deprecative observing by knocking on the door and the warden's demanding tone.

"Hey, Kimblee. I got other things to do today, I don't wanna be here all day waiting for your ass. Hurry it up."


End file.
